


The Beauty of All Life

by Cannibal_Cake



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: But that don't make this easy, Eliot figures it out, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Liberal use of Margo-profanity, M/M, Margo fucks up everything, Not Canon Compliant, Political Intrigue, Recreational Drug Use, Sexy Times, Spoilers for ep 3x05, The boys don't actually avoid this time, Warning: Characters have taken over, like at all, nobody is okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-03-15 20:59:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13621572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannibal_Cake/pseuds/Cannibal_Cake
Summary: Jesus, fuck. Eliot. Their son. The mosaic.Getting their memories back brings love but the revelation could lead to a shattering of their kingdom.This was SUPPOSED to be a one-shot, but a plot sort of blew up in my face and I had to run with it.#PeachesAndPlums





	1. Chapter 1

The throne room was silent, save for the sound of Quentin’s hyperventilated breaths. No matter how he tried he couldn't get enough air into his screaming lungs. His heart felt like it was being leavered out of his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eliot, gone pale and utterly still.  
  
Jesus, fuck. Eliot. Their son. The mosaic.  
  
Quentin didn't know how to process. An entire lifetime. He'd lived and loved and cherished. He'd built a life. A happy life...with Eliot. He could remember all of it and the cognitive dissonance wreaked havoc on his already fragile brain. He shook his head back and forth repeatedly. None of it had really happened. Not to him. Not to them. Had it? It was all a cruel joke, meant to fuck with him. The kind of life he thought he'd wanted with Alice had happened with someone else. He didn't know he could be that happy. That content. But it hadn't actually happened to him. He remembered it, somehow, but it was as good as an illusion.  
  
“The beauty of life.”  
  
Quentin stilled at the sound of Eliot's voice and turned his head towards the sound. His eyes met those of the man who'd been his partner in every sense of the word. (No! No he wasn’t. Not now. Oh, gods, the torture.) “W-what?” Quentin spluttered, his eyes squeezing tight shut.  
  
He felt long, elegant fingers wrap around his knee. A gentle pressure forcing him back into this surreal reality. “We found it, Q.” Eliot turned his body towards Quentin, a look of wry amusement on his face. The hand stayed where Eliot had laid it. By fractions, very tiny ones, Quentin's heart started to slow.  
  
“I don't understand.”  
  
The hand moved away as Eliot leant back against the dais, eyes raised to the highly vaulted ceiling. Quentin had to fight to keep a whimper from escaping his lips because even that little absence made his world tilt. Christ, what was wrong with him?  
  
Without an anchor all of the memories of his (their) other life threatened to overwhelm him. Fighting with Eliot over the proper mathematical equations and number of red tiles to line up next to the blue. Looking up to the sky and deciding, to hell with it, he was going to finally make a move on Eliot. The almost awkward, but not quite, morning after. Kissing the girl with the peaches. Holding his son as he cried because she was gone. Waking up to Eliot running his fingers through both Quentin's hair and that of his son’s and the sleepy smile it brought to everyone's lips. Watching his son, their son, take his first steps. Speak his first word. Lose his first tooth. Watch that son grow into a young man who would one day set out on his own life's adventure. And a thousand other little moments that all culminated in handing the key, so dearly paid for with Eliot's life, to the Chatwin girl.  
  
“We lived it, Q. That's why you found the last key.” And suddenly El was there beside him, wrapping his arms around Quentin's shoulders, running his fingers through Quentin's hair in that way El knew that he liked.  
  
Quentin buried his face in the crook of Eliot's neck. He could smell the comforting scent of the other man's sweat. “How? How do we remember it? Why?”  
  
Long fingers tilted his chin up towards Eliot's face. El was smiling down with that signature smile. “I don't know. Fucking magical quest,” he chuckled and delivered a chaste kiss to Quentin's lips. It felt like home.  
  
Quentin choked out a laugh of his own as he burrowed back down into Eliot's shirt. “Fucking magical keys.”  
  
They sat together like that for a time until Quentin finally worked up the nerve to ask the question he knew might change their current reality forever. Only the luxurious and sensual feeling of Eliot's fingers in his hair gave him any nerve for it at all. "Do you want it back?" Eliot's fingers stilled. "N-not that we can ever replace what we...Jesus, I don't know what I'm saying. Forget it." Q started to pull away reluctantly and get his ass off that dais and on with the his miserable life. A life with no magic, an ex- girlfriend who hated him...and worst of all, no family.  
  
But Eliot pulled on the tail of Quentin's shirt. "Come back, idiot." He sat Quentin down beside him and took his face into his hands (Gods, why had Q never built an altar to those fabulous hands?) forcing Q to look him in the eye.  
  
"Q. Listen to me," he said. Quentin's throat felt thick as he swallowed and nodded. "In the past two or three minutes I've been flooded with around sixty years worth of memories." Eliot shut his eyes briefly enough to let a tear track down his cheek. "It's enough to overload my brain. I can't imagine what it's doing to yours."  
  
Quentin reached forward and brought their foreheads together. "I feel like I'm dying. What we lost. What we'll never actually have. Eliot--" Words were failing him. They were so close together that they were exchanging bits of each other's ragged breaths. It was making Quentin a little dizzy.

“Me too.” A startled hiccuping laugh escaped his lips. “Jesus, I'm not usually this ineloquent. Let me try again.” Which somehow got Quentin laughing, just a little as well. It was enough to break some of the tension, but not by much. “What I'm trying to say is I--”

The outer door to the throne room burst open and the Fillorian equivalent of Manolo Blahniks approached like an oncoming thunderstorm. The two men split apart like shrapnel. “Hey, best bitches. It's time to save your one-and-only queen from carnal union with baby Hannibal Lecter.” As Margo rounded the corner, however, she stopped. She focused her one good eye on the pair of them with laser-like intensity. “What the fuck did I just interrupt? You two look like I caught you sniffing my underwear.”

Eliot recovered first, his best laconic smile sliding across his face. “ _Nothing_ , Bambi. We were just discussing what our next step was. Right, Q?”

Quentin coughed. “Umm, yeah.”

Margo pursed her lips and regarded them both from head to toe. “If I didn't know better I'd say you two banged again. And this time without me, which would have been rude. But as this is neither the _time_ nor the _place_ for fucking, you two had better get your shit together and help me figure this out.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that Margo is here it's practically impossible to keep up the same level of angst, guys. On the plus side this chapter is funnier and almost twice as long.
> 
> So sorry AND you're welcome?

They followed along behind her, shoulders nearly touching, fingers grazing against each other. Step, by step Quentin could feel this _something_ building between he and Eliot. It was maddening but Margo had been right. This wasn’t the right time for he and Eliot to have any kind of Earth-shattering (Fillorian-shattering?) moment. Too much was at stake. He chanced a glance up at Eliot and could see that the other man was just as frustrated but also as resigned as he was. Q sighed. Well, at least they were on the same page.

It looked like Margo had led them into a disused hallway. Or maybe it had been recently vacated? There were little bits of trash on the flagstone that no one had come to clean up yet. He’d always remembered the Fillorian servants being a bit more fastidious in their duties before now. It wasn’t like any of that mattered, though.

“Good,” said Margo, turning to them. “I finally managed to get the Floaters housed in a different wing of the castle.” She patted her hair down briefly then placed her hands on her hips. “This is the only place around where we can talk without her Fairy Bitchiness overhearing us.”

Eliot looked around the hallway a little blankly. “Because she wouldn’t be caught dead in such poor lighting? I mean, she is that fucking tragic shade of pale. She probably needs to plan where she stands very carefully.” Quentin snorted, but caught himself when he noticed that Margo was not amused. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“No. This happens to be the one hallway in the entire damn castle that is built out of stone that fairies are violently allergic to.” Quentin studied the walls skeptically.

“I always thought that the fae were allergic to iron,” he said.

“Apparently not in Fillory,” she said. Her tone made it clear that she didn’t actually give a flying fuck and Quentin let it drop.

“So, your new husband...” Eliot led.

“Is a teenage psychopath forced on me by our fairy malefactors, yeah.” She folded her arms under her breasts. “His name’s Prince Fomar. Seems he’s the one male chauvinist in a nation run on pussy power.”

Quentin took a deep breath, preparing to go into full-on nerd exposition mode. “Yeah, it’s actually pretty interesting. The books don’t go into a lot of detail about them but a small delegation came to officially welcome the Chatwins when they first took the throne--” He was stopped by a manicured finger being shoved over his lips.

“Don’t care, Q.” He heard Eliot snort this time behind his right shoulder. “Just help me get rid of this Geoffrey wannabe, twat rag without starting another goddam war.”

 _Crickets_. They all just stood there looking at one another. Rather tensely. Then after a few moments at their shoes. The stained glass. The wall. When it finally became clear that no flashbulb of insight was going to occur, Quentin actually did think of something. Sort of.

“Okay, so we’ve got nothing, am I right,” he said, rubbing his hands together. It was more a statement than a question. They all nodded without making eye contact. “El,” Eliot looked across at Quentin, expectantly. “Remember--do you remember our very first day in front of the mosaic?”

“Of course,” Eliot answered immediately, unthinkingly. Margo eyed the two of them but said nothing.  

Quentin started pacing back and forth down the short expanse of hallway available to him, moving his fingers in what almost looked like a set of sleight-of-hand movements. “We knew--well I thought--that this monumental task might not seem s-so _insurmountable_ if we broke it down into smaller pieces.”

Eliot brought his hand to his brow, clearly trying to look bored, above it all and not smile. Margo shot him a look that said, _The fuck is wrong with you?_

“What? I can't help it that I find him impossibly cute when he stims,” he whispered, waving his fingers around in a Q parody. Margo scowled for a second, but then saw that it seemed Quentin hadn't even noticed that his friends weren't listening. He was like a little motor that kept running. Margo shrugged one shoulder and smiled indulgently. Point Eliot.

Quentin stopped between them, his hands steepled in front of his breast bone. “So what do you guys think? We start there?” He was met with blank stares. Of course he'd seen what was going on. He wasn't actually oblivious as often as they assumed he was. So he decided to fuck with them...just a little. “Come on guys. It's really very simple.”

“No, no. You're right Q. Sounds like a great idea.” Eliot shot a look down at Bambi. “Right, Bambi?”

Margo studied her cuticles in a bored fashion. “Sure. Why not.”

“Great! So Eliot and I will be hiding under, or maybe behind the bed... I haven't really decided...while Margo you, um, _distract_ the kid long enough for us to slit his throat.” Oh god, the looks on their faces was priceless. “Then we just call Pick in to dispose of the body.” Margo and El audibly gulped and started to back away.

“Damn it! I'm fucking with you.” Quentin threw up his hands in disgust. “You really thought I'd think that was a _good_ plan?” His friends looked utterly relieved and then rather guilty. Served them right. “Look, I know I tend to be a little long-winded when I get going.” Margo looked like she wanted to interject her agreement, but Q cut her off. “Still not the time to agree with me, Margo.” She shut her mouth. “But c’mon guys, this is important.” They stood there guiltily, not speaking. Quentin rolled his eyes. “Jesus. Okay, now you can agree with me.”

“You're right. We're sorry, Q.” Margo approached him with her arms out and her Bambi eye. Quentin huffed but welcomed her in. A second or two later he felt Eliot press up to his back and wrap his arms around both of them. It felt indescribably good. Then, after about a minute of this, when Eliot started to sway, a little uncomfortable.

“Umm, guys. Can the Quentin sandwich be over? We still need to brainstorm this.” A few coughs, apologies and shuffles later they were all separated but smiling. Point Quentin.

“Margo, how have you been holding him off so far? It was something about having to open all the presents first?” Quentin really had been going somewhere before when they weren't listening.

“Yeah. I told him it was an Earth tradition that I had to open all the wedding presents before we did it or his dick would fall off.”

Quentin laughed in spite of her dry tone. “And he really bought that?”

“Look, the kid’s sixteen _tops_ and I’m hot.” It didn't seem like she could help the self-satisfied grin that flashed briefly across her face before she went on. “Besides, since I've been here I've noticed that I can get away with a lot of weird behavior in front of the locals if I say it's an Earth thing.”

“She's right, Q.” That flask of his appeared from the inside of his vest and he unscrewed the lid. “It's one of the few ironic joys I've been found since getting stuck here. They think _we're_ the ones with the strange customs.” He took a big swig and replaced it.

“So, we use that to our advantage.”

“You mean make up some shit to keep him outta my panties? That won't work forever, Q. What part of, 'that kid’s a psycho,” didn't you understand?”

“No, but it'll buy us some time to figure out our next move, Bambi,” Eliot said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and offering her his flask. She took it and pulled a long swig before handing it to Quentin.

“Exactly,” he said after he drank and handed it back to Eliot. “We need more time. We have an opportunity to get it.”

“Any suggestions?” She asked.

Quentin couldn't help the satisfied smile that stretched across his face. “How about a quest?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my lovely commenters requested some Quentin/Eliot/Margo action. I'm afraid that this is as close as I could realistically get, but I hope it made you guys as happy as it made me. 
> 
> And don't worry, CC's on fire tonight. I'll have chapter 3 up before you know it because now I have an actual fucking plan!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the _Feelings Express_ , everybody!

Margo twitched off on her heels leaving Eliot and Quentin alone. They were leaning against the stone wall, trying to look anywhere except each other, but Quentin at least felt cautiously optimistic. The plan was set. Or rather the stalling tactic was set. 

“You know,” drawled Eliot. “That was actually quite clever.”

“The best lies contain a kernel of truth.” Eliot passed him the flask again and Quentin drank. “It’s traditional for the bride’s father to approve of the groom  _ before _ the wedding.”

Eliot smirked. “So, since that particular horse has already left the gate . . .”

“Prince Fomar needs to prove himself worthy in a manner acceptable to the High King.” Quentin swiveled his head towards Eliot, all the liquor they’d used while coming up with this plan finally getting to him. “That would be you.”

Eliot turned too, an errant curl falling across his brow. “That would be me. And as--well, Me--I find it only good and proper that Fomar go on a quest to find the fairest flower in the land for the fairest queen.” Quentin smiled, because Eliot had made one of his  _ kingly gestures _ and the quality of his voice took on that extra bit of resonance. He’d always rolled his eyes at Eliot when he got like this before, but Q just couldn’t quite be arsed to keep up the charade anymore. He loved Regal Eliot.

“Of course that flower is only found at the mouth of a cave. Home to a troll.” They started giggling and fell against each other, sliding to the floor. “Is any of that even a thing?”

“Oh, the great Quentin Coldwater doesn’t  _ know _ something about Fillory?” 

“Shut  _ up _ . I know everything about Fillory and I’ll kick your ass if you tell anyone otherwise,” Q said, clearly not as indignant as he was trying to sound. 

“Yeah? Come at me, Coldwater.”

And suddenly they weren’t laughing anymore. Eliot raked his eyes up and down Quentin’s body. 

Without much warning it felt like the previous moment in the throne room had simply been put on pause and it was go time again. Quentin felt his chest tightening and he noticed a fresh tear forming at the corner of Eliot’s eye. “El . . . Don’t you dare tell me not to overthink this again,” he said.

“No,” Eliot replied in a hushed tone, threading Quentin’s fingers with his own and then bringing them to his lips. “No, Quentin. I wouldn’t dare. I don’t think there actually is a way to overthink something like this.”

“Do you think--You think Rupert’s descendants are running around Fillory?”

“God, I hope so,” Eliot exclaimed, but he said the next thing so quietly that if Quentin hadn’t been leaning right against his friend he might not have heard. “Is it wrong that I feel like more of a father to Rupert than I do to Fray, my  _ actual _ flesh and blood?”

Quentin let his head fall against Eliot’s shoulder and squeezed the other man’s hand. “Eliot, you were there the day Rupert was born. You helped raise him before and  _ after _ Arielle died.” His voice faltered a little at the mention of his long-dead wife. “You weren’t Uncle El. You were  _ Papa El _ .” Almost reluctantly, Eliot nodded, eyes fixed on his own lap. “And our son wasn’t presented to us, full grown, with orders to spy on us.”

“I don’t even know if she’s really mine, Q.” Of course they’d already talked about this on more than one occasion. In the early days, at least, when they still assumed that the mosaic wouldn’t take quite as long as it did. “I mean, you’d think I’d just be able to  _ tell _ that she was mine.” Eliot sighed and drank more.

“I think it’s going to turn out to be one of those unprovable things. At least not without a DNA test.”

“Shit. We left them on  _ Earth _ .” Quentin could feel silent laughter rumbling in Eliot’s chest and the bob of his adam’s apple as he drank more fiery liquid. “With Todd.” He tried to pass the flask back to Q but the smaller man already knew that he was very close to his limit. Like one more sip would have probably done it. He never could keep up with El and Margo’s drinking athleticism. 

“I’m good,” he said.

“Suit yourself,” Eliot said, but he put the flask away in such a manner that Quentin knew it wouldn’t be coming back out again. 

In front of them the frosted glass was darkening with the ending of the day. Now that they were still, the banal sounds of the castle came back into focus. Q could hear a pair of servants talking about setting up the banquet hall for the royal supper. Another man walked past them with a little bow and a “Your Majesties,” as he pushed a broom to clear away the Floater’s debris. 

“Okay, we’d better get off the floor,” Eliot said. “Royalty on the floor is probably going to raise some eyebrows and bring us unwanted attention.” Quentin allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and led away from the burst bubble of their hall sanctuary. “We can talk more in my royal chambers.”

“Did I ever tell you that I find it incredibly sexy when you talk like an actual king?”

“I  _ am _ an actual king, dolt. And so are you.” Eliot led them through one corridor and then down another to a wing that seemed to consist largely of bedrooms. He vaguely remembered that these were supposed to be the royal residences but unlike Eliot and Margo, he hadn’t actually had much opportunity to use them. 

Q looked around at the four doors lining the hall. They were all rather beautiful, he thought, with wood carvings around the posts and lintels. Some of wild stags or unicorns, others were carved to appear like large trees and vines were holding up the doors. “So, one of these doors goes to my room, right?”

Eliot sucked air through his teeth, but wouldn’t meet Quentin’s eye. “Technically, yes. But since you’re never here . . .MargoandIsortofturnedyourroomintoabigcloset.”

It took a second for him to process what Eliot had just said. But he got there. “You sons of bitches!” Quentin pulled back on the hand leading him to spin El around. “Really?”

“Oh, stop.” Eliot pulled him in close to his chest, wrapping his arms low around his waist. “You know you’re never going to use it.” 

“Not the point.” Quentin tried, and failed, to stay annoyed. “I know I’m the one who opened the batting for--all this.” Gods, it was hard to concentrate with Eliot staring at him like that. “But we really need to talk. About, well,  _ this _ .” He gestured to the door Eliot was clearly leading them towards. “We can’t just go in there and get naked.”

Eliot loosened his grip and took a step back. “You’re right. No, you’re right.” It seemed to Quentin that Eliot was more likely trying to convince himself of the veracity of the statement rather than actually agreeing with the other man. And while part of him was feeling really encouraged by that, another louder part was worried that this wasn’t going to end well. Being with Eliot made Quentin far more impetuous than he might otherwise be. And that lead to monumental mistakes between them as often as not. One mistake in particular nearly destroyed every important relationship he had at the time. 

“So can we just go in there and talk?” he asked, hopefully.

“I suppose,” Eliot said. “As long as we agree that this is a talk that is actually going to go somewhere. I know I said that I wouldn’t demand that we not overthink this, but I also don’t want us going in endless circles.” He pushed open the heavy door to his chambers and led them inside before closing the door and leaning against it. “That way lies madness, Q.”

Quentin shoved his hands in his back pockets with a sigh, because Eliot was right. “Agreed.”

“Good. Then let’s talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feelings are messy, ya'll. And hard to write. 
> 
> Especially these two emotional cripples. I'm not sure I captured the natural ups and downs and crazy left-hand turns that a mind gone into shock can go through. 
> 
> Can somebody reassure me that I did okay? I promise more is coming but I had to see if this chapter is a complete wash first.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to have to kick the rating up a notch after this one. But not for the reasons you might be expecting.

Inside Eliot’s chambers everything was in a predictable state of disarray, though it was clear that some effort had been made to contain the chaos. The truly massive bed was made but strewn with a half dozen discarded robes and other articles of clothing. Nearer to the door there was a gilded bar set resting on a low dark wood table in front of a blue velvet settee, filled with different colored liquids Quentin assumed were alcoholic. But alongside it was a makeshift ashtray, nearly overflowing with the butts of what must be homemade cigarettes, if the rolling papers and dried leaves sitting next to it were anything to go by. It was here that Eliot dropped himself while Quentin took in his surroundings. He was surprised to see a large map table in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading out onto a leaf-covered balcony. Another wall held a massive bookcase, stuffed with scrolls and other tomes, except for one shelf that held what looked like sketch books and the nibs of charcoal pencils. 

Pulling one from the pile he began flipping through the drawings. The first was of Margo, looking her most devastatingly regal in a diaphanous gown, but Q could see where Eliot had rubbed out one eye and transformed it into one of her beaded eye patches. The next page bore a picture of Fenn looking heavily pregnant, an indescribably sad expression on her face. The next was of Alice, her eyes blazing and skin crackling with Niffin light, standing over Quentin’s half-dead body. Blood pooled out from under his nearly severed arm and it was flowing out towards Alice, who looked like she was somehow absorbing it through her feet. One of those  _ somebody just walked over your grave _ feelings swept over Quentin and he closed the sketch book, carefully replacing it on the shelf.

Quentin licked his dry lips and turned back to Eliot, who had one of the cigarettes dangling from his lips and was probably searching for a way to light it if his mad shuffling of papers was anything to go by. “Did you finally find something decent to smoke?”

Eliot eventually found what looked like an honest-to-god Bic lighter. “Actually, Josh did.” He lit the end of the cigarette and inhaled as he leaned back bonelessly against one arm of the couch. “He calls it Fillorian Kush.”  Eliot lifted the arm holding the native cannabis over the back of the seat and wordlessly beckoned Quentin to come lay down with him. 

He only briefly hesitated before crawling into the space left by the vee of Eliot’s legs and leaned back against the other man’s chest. Eliot’s free hand came to rest over Quentin’s heart.

“He was smoking it from a bong he’d made from god knows what,” he said, passing the joint to Quentin who decided that under the circumstances, getting a little mellow might actually help.  “But that’s way too phallic, even for me. I made him bring me back rolling papers and a lighter just before the blackout.”

Q coughed and sputtered out smoke with unexpected laughter. “Jesus, El.”

Eliot plucked the joint from Quentin’s fingers before he dropped it. “Careful, careful! That’s one of the last joints we’ll get until this quest is over.”

Quentin leaned back against his friend’s (partner’s?) chest again with a groan and reached an arm up to bury his fingers in Eliot's curls. “Fuck. The quest.” The other man’s arm snaked around him again, holding him loosely there. 

“One thing at a time, Q,” there was just a hint of a smile to be heard in Eliot’s voice. He knew how quickly Quentin could spiral. And he was right. Quentin had to jerk his mind away from running through all the next steps and contemplating every horrible consequence and outcome of those steps before rewinding and taking another route through the same problem. It was a goddamn mess in there. It was why Eliot was always telling him not to overthink things. Sometimes it was exhausting being him.

“We could put a pin in this, if you want.” A plume of smoke wafted over Quentin’s head as Eliot spoke. “Talk again once we aren’t so...I don’t know, strung-out?”

Quentin shook his head. “No, I don’t think this is going to get any  _ easier _ , El.”

“You’re probably right. Here, take another hit.” Quentin did, letting the smoke filter through his lungs and hit his blood stream a few seconds later. It really was good shit. It almost made what he knew had to come next less scary. 

“So...So, clearly you remember as much as I do. I didn’t imagine that, did I?”

“I don’t know if we remember it in the same way.” He balled the fabric of Quentin’s shirt up in his fist almost as though he was scared that Quentin might try to bolt.

“That’s kind of what I’m afraid of. What we both took away from it might be a lot different.” Q’s brain started cycling again. “And did it actually happen anyway? I mean, clearly it did and just as clearly it didn’t. Case-in-point, neither of us are old and you aren’t dead.”

“Thank Christ for that small mercy.” He heard Eliot’s head thump against the back of the sofa. “But this is what I was talking about earlier. You’re venturing into territory that will drive us crazy. We aren’t going to be able to figure out the why’s and how’s.”

Quentin huffed in frustration. “I don’t know if I can get past it.”

“Then how’s this for a working hypothesis: We’re remembering a past life. Like the Hindus’ idea of reincarnation. Or like how Jane kept rewinding our lives over and over again until we finally killed that dick.”

“Okay . . . Okay, I think I can accept that.” Quentin twisted around enough so that he could look into Eliot’s eyes. “But what does that mean for us in the here and now?” The expression on Eliot’s face was unreadable for a moment, until he looked away.

“I know that, for me,” Eliot began, “not much has changed since the day I met you.” Quentin braced himself for what he didn’t want to hear: that Eliot was attracted to him, which hadn’t gone unnoticed by Quentin, but that Eliot felt nothing but a warm affection for him in the long run. That’s what he expected to hear. Not, “Except that I’m more in love with you than ever.”

Quentin floundered for a moment, sitting up. “Oh. Oh.”

The alarm on Eliot’s face was evident. He sat up too and dropped one hand down onto Quentin’s shoulder to calm him. “It’s okay, Q. It’s okay. I’ve always known that you don’t really feel the exact same way about me. We’re still family. I’ll still always have--”

Q launched himself at Eliot, who hit the back of the sofa with a  _ whump _ . Quentin just didn’t seem to have much control over himself now that he’d finally heard the words he was hoping for. He practically climbed Eliot’s long legs until he was straddling the other man’s waist and could gather up handfuls of Eliot’s vest in his hands to drag Eliot to his lips. The kiss was clumsy and, to be honest, a bit violent. He poured all of his longing, frustration and loneliness into that kiss until he had to come up for air. 

Eliot looked stunned and a bit ravished. His lips were kiss-swollen and his hair a complete wreck. Somehow Q had managed to rip a few buttons from his vest, too. El touched two fingers to his lips and said, “Jesus, Coldwater...I’d say,  _ do that again, _ but I want a turn.” And with no further ado Eliot was pushing him backwards and down into the velvet cushions. Both of the older man’s hands buried themselves in Quentin’s hair and he ran his tongue along the seam of Quentin’s mouth, as if begging for entrance, which was eagerly granted. Q moaned and pulled Eliot down further by the collar of his shirt until they were laying flush against each other, legs and arms twisting around for dominance. Nothing about this was elegant but it was all white, hot need. Quentin struggled to pull the tails of Eliot's shirt from the waistband of his jeans and Eliot was trying to extricate Quentin from the confines of his hoodie. All without breaking the kiss.

A knock on the door interrupted them.

Eliot growled and rolled off Quentin who just lay there like a limp rag, in a complete daze.

“What. The actual. _Fuck_?” He yelled. Quentin couldn’t help the giggle that fell out of his mouth. Eliot scowled down at him for about half a beat but couldn’t quite make it stick.

“Your majesty,” came the timid voice of Tick. “King Idri of Loria has arrived to discuss the disposition of his son, Prince Ess...Who High Queen Margo had imprisoned.”

_ Fuck. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Insert evil, maniacal cackling here.]
> 
> But seriously, folks, that came out of left field for me as much as it did for you. That last expletive was actually what came out of my own mouth. 
> 
> Since when did Margo become such a huge cock-block?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a segway into my new Eliot POV . . . I just had to see what was going through his mind during the last chapter.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_ What a cruel fucking world, _ Eliot thought. Or, perhaps more accurately,  _ What cruel fucking worlds.  _ It probably didn't make a lot of difference. No matter what planet he was currently on or what time he was in he only ever had gotten a taste of what he wanted before it slipped through his fingers like the water Dear Liza poured through Dear Henry's leaky bucket.

_ There's a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza. _

“But what does that mean for us in the here and now,’ Quentin asked him.

Eliot knew, but only for his own part. Quentin may have just been a fascination for him on the day he'd met the hopelessly cute super-nerd, but slowly, almost without him realizing, Quentin had become  _ essential _ . “For me, not much has really changed,” he answered. Margo had warned him that he shouldn't become attached. The bi ones always ended up leaving you for a woman and breaking your heart. Q had broken him twice already.

_ Then fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry. _

What difference could it possibly make if Quentin broke him one more time?

Quentin's body was warm against his own. He tried to absorb that warmth as much as he could because he was growing cold with silent dread as he finished the thought, “Except that I'm more in love with you than ever.” A heart beat, no more, passed and Q stiffened and then pulled away.

_ With what shall I fix it, dear Liza, dear Liza? _

“Oh...Oh.” Q’s eyes darted over Eliot, then away as he tried and failed to push his gorgeous hair back from his face.

Oh, god. Shit. Quentin looked absolutely panicked. No matter how much Eliot was falling apart at any given moment it was always his first instinct, compulsion even, to put Q back together again--talk him down from the edge. If Q needed him to neutralize the central truth of his existence he would do it. Quentin's fragile mind and heart was his to protect, even at the cost of his own. It was arguably his most destructive habit, but he just couldn't help himself. “It’s okay, Q. It’s okay.” He began, settling what he hoped was a comforting hand on Q’s shoulder. “I’ve always known that you don’t really feel the exact same way about me. We’re still family. I’ll still always have--”

Quentin fucking attacked him. At least that's what he thought was happening until Q’s lips crashed into his. Even then he wasn't too sure what was happening. Their teeth clacked together briefly and Q may have actually bit him a little. All he knew was that one moment Quentin looked to be ready to flee the room...and the next Eliot found himself being practically assaulted in the most mind-blowingly sexual way imaginable. However, once he fully realized that he actually had a non-homicidal, but turned on Quentin in his lap, he just tried to keep up. He felt like he was being devoured, marked, claimed and he did his best to hold on and not drown under Quentin Coldwater.

A subjective lifetime later Quentin allowed them to come up for air. The insane boy was smiling down at him, looking extremely pleased with himself and somehow a little embarrassed at the same time. Eliot's lips were actually tingling, and he reached a hand up to touch his swollen lips. “Jesus, Coldwater...I’d say,  _ do that again, _ but I want a turn.”

Eliot felt incredibly proud of himself as he turned the tables and was pushing Quentin backwards, a surprised gasp escaping from the other man's lips. Q hit the cushions maybe a bit harder than Eliot had intended, but turnabout's fair play, he reasoned. Even so he couldn't bear to be quite so rough with Quentin. Instead he buried his hands up to his wrists in the silkiest hair he'd ever felt. He lost himself in the taste of Q’s lips and asked permission to go further with the tip of his tongue. Quentin moaned his assent and Eliot dove straight in. He felt almost whole as Q pulled him down to press their bodies even closer together, but it wasn't enough. It wouldn't be until he could feel this beautiful man's skin under his hands and bury himself inside. Quentin must have caught the feeling too because they both started tearing at each other's clothing at the same time. This was no easy feat, what with Q’s currently infuriating penchant for 'comfy clothes’ (read:too much fucking fabric), and the fact that they couldn't quite manage to pull their lips apart for more than a second or two.

Of course there had to be an interruption. The knock on his chamber door came just as he'd managed to get the second of the hoodie's sleeves off Quentin and had begun to feel his way under his shirt. Perfect. Just fucking  _ perfect _ .

With a growl, he rolled off Quentin who, incidentally, didn't look quite capable of moving. (He'd smile about that later.) In a tenor that he hoped would strike the interruption dead on the spot he bellowed, “What. The actual.  _ Fuck _ ?”

Quentin actually  _ giggled _ . The jerk. But he couldn't help but smile back down at him through his annoyance. Their timing just blew. And not in the good way.

“Your majesty,” came the timid voice of Tick. “King Idri of Loria has arrived to discuss the disposition of his son, Prince Ess...Who High Queen Margo had imprisoned.”

Eliot gulped. Fuck. His fiancé was here. God damn you, Margo.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be getting the next big chunk of the plot from inside Eliot's perspective. Partly because I wanted the challenge. (I am a native Quentin-speaker. Eliot's way harder for me.) And partly, because Q just can't be around for some of the stuff that's about to go down.
> 
> OH! I almost forgot to add: Are most of you familiar with the frankly ancient folk song Eliot was singing in his head? Or is my Southern/Ruralness showing? Here's a really cute Sesame Street version I found. https://youtu.be/zYY6Q4nRTS4 . Anyway, I just thought that Eliot would know that song, given his farm boy background. I know the song's supposed to be funny but I always thought it must have been a sadly infuriating experience for Dear Henry and that Dear Liza was a bit of a bitch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tried inserting some levity into this chapter. I really did. Instead I'm up to my eyeballs in angst.

Eliot buried his head in his hands. “Well, if that isn't a mood killer.” When Quentin didn't make a sound in reply, he looked up. Quentin had pushed himself up into a sitting position and he didn't have that  _ I've-just-been-ravished _ look anymore. He looked depressingly resigned and resolutely not looking at Eliot. It was perhaps understandable that they'd forgotten about this inconvenient plot development but it didn't change the fact that it was real. And there was going to be fallout, Eliot knew. Possible war. Again. If not with Loria, then within his own kingdom.

“Q. This changes nothing,” he said.

“I know.”

“Do you? You won't look at me.” Quentin let his eyes slide from the middle distance and onto Eliot.

“What do you want me to say, El?” He'd wrapped himself into a ball, wedged into the furthest corner of the settee. “Huh? Do you want me to give you  _ permission _ to marry someone else?”

“What?! Quentin--” He tried to reach out to his...(God damn it. Labels, titles.) but Q put out a hand to ward him off.

“I get it! You're the High King. Sacrifices need to be made for the good of Fillory.” Quentin got up and crossed over towards the glass doors leading out to the balcony. “Just don't expect me to be okay with it, alright?” He faced outward towards the night, his shoulders slumped. “Don't ask me to be around for it.”

“Fuck that!” Eliot said, rising to his feet.

“Which part, Eliot? The part where I told you that I'm not alright with you marrying another man or the part where I refuse to hang around for the ceremony?” He pressed his hand against the glass. “Because both of those things are non-negotiable.”

“No. Fuck the wedding. Fuck  _ Loria _ .”

Quentin turned to him then, that kicked puppy look of his merged with resignation. “How can you say that, El? We're already have two possible wars on our hands, not to mention a deadly quest to finish. You want to juggle one more sword over our heads?”

“Yes!” He could feel tears collecting in the corners of his eyes and he looked up to send them off. “Don't you get it yet? You're more important.  _ We are more important! _ ”

“No we're not and you know it.”

The quiet depression in Quentin’s voice was too much. He had to go to him. In a few long strides he was holding Quentin in his arms. Eliot felt Q stiffen briefly before melting into him. “What good does it do me to be High King if I can't tell everyone to fuck off when I want?” He ran his fingers through the other man's hair one at a time to gently pull Q’s face up to his own. “And we're both kings. We can defy them together.”

Quentin closed his eyes in evident pain. “What kind of kings would would we be to commit thousands of our people to death so we can be together?”

Wet blankets and leaky buckets. He felt both of them threaten to weigh him down. Q was right. They both knew Eliot would never sacrifice his own people for himself. His track record actually ran very much in the other direction. God damn this noble streak of his. He couldn't let it get the better of him this time. He wouldn't.

“It won't come to that.” He began placing soft kisses on Quentin's brow. Then each eyelid. His cheeks. Finally a long needful one to Quentin's lips. “I have to believe that there is a way through this without declaring war.”

“I don't see how, El,” Q said, looking away.

Eliot tilted his face back up towards his own. “Do you love me, Quentin Coldwater?”

“You know that I do.”

He kissed him then. It was a declaration. A triumph. It would give him strength. He found himself smiling. “Then have faith in your High King.”

“But how...”

Eliot kissed him again. Partly because he could. Partly to stop him from voicing any doubt to shake Eliot's resolve. “I don't know. But I'll figure something out.” He kissed him long and hard before spinning away to march towards the door. “You should probably stay here. The fewer people who know you're here and who exactly you are the better.”

“But...Eliot!”

Eliot turned, hand on the knob, making sure to radiate confidence from every pore. “Have faith, Q. And get some sleep in that big bed of mine. I want it smelling like you when I get back.”

He carried Quentin's surprised laughter like a talisman with him all the way to the throne room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carry that last bit with you too, dear readers. It's all going to be okay. Have faith in your High King.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is actually kind of lengthy. For me anyway.

Margo met him just outside of the throne room. She looked as grim as he felt. “Where's Q?”

Eliot had to reign in his anger with Margo. It wasn't actually her fault, he kept reminding himself. She just brought this obstacle to bear sooner rather than later. Even so, his tone was more clipped than he wanted. “He's sleeping it off in my room. I didn't want him here for this.”

The light of suspicions realized appeared on her face. “You _did_ bang!” Unfortunately, she said it just as guards drew in to flank them.

Eliot drew her aside roughly by the arm. “No we did not,” he hissed in an undertone. “Thanks to you. What were you thinking, Margo?”

She pulled from his grasp with a sharp yank. He let her go. “I thought he was trying to kill my husband! Just turned out I was wrong."

“And you didn't think to free him after you found out he was innocent?”

She folded her arms under her breasts and cocked a hip. “I was a little preoccupied with,” she started ticking things off on her polished nails. “Thinking you and Quentin were dead, dealing with a _very british_ Time Whore and dodging underage cock! Forgive me if I forgot about your _stepson_.”

They were starting to get side-eye from those gathered outside the door, waiting for the pair of them to proceed everyone into the chambers. Eliot closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Fine. Let's just go in there and do some damage control. I've already ordered Ess's release. Hopefully that will keep us from war long enough for us to form a plan for round two.”

“Excuse me? What’re you talking about, _round_ _two_?”

He ignored her in favor of muttering, “I guess it'll be more like round three, but hopefully it won't come to that.”

“Eliot?” He didn't miss the fear in her voice.

“Later. Let's just get in there and try to fix this.” He offered her his arm and she took it, purely out of reflex but the familiar feel of her cooled his temper somewhat. And he did actually adore her Gucci-loving ass. He looked down at her tense expression and squeezed her hand. “It'll be okay, Bambi.”

“It had fucking better be.”

 

* * *

 

Once the two of them were seated primly on their thrones Eliot beckoned one of the ushers to escort in their royal guests. A few moments later the king of Loria appeared, looking somewhat bemused, but not actually all that eager for war (yet)--flanked by his sullen son, now freed. Ess looked less than thrilled with this audience and with Margo in particular. Idri, for his part, inclined his head towards Eliot.

As this was their bad, Eliot felt he owed it to the Lorians to speak first. “King Idri. We are deeply ashamed at this misunderstanding between our two houses.” He glanced at Margo who, to her credit, did look as penitent as she was capable of being while still maintaining her haughty (she called it _regal_ ) exterior. “Our only excuse is the pressure of political intrigue.” Eliot swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. “We still desire the close alliance of our two kingdoms.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Just because he no longer wished to marry Idri, it didn’t mean he didn’t want to keep the Lorians as allies. Eliot had a feeling they’d need all the friends they could get in the coming weeks and months. The trick would be in finding a way to wiggle out of this marriage treaty without reigniting their war.

Eliot, who was holding Margo’s hand across the small space between their thrones, gave her fingers a rather pointed squeeze. She took it as the que it was meant to be and cleared her throat, directing her gaze to Ess. “Prince Ess. I was wrong to imprison you. Please accept my sincerest apologies.” _Holy shit, she almost managed to sound like she meant it._ The fact that she’d apologized at all was a feat in itself. Before now he’d only ever heard her say anything like that to himself and more recently Quentin. Eliot approved. Prince Ess, on the other hand, looked less than impressed. But this was hardly a new look for the young royal.

Idri laid a lightly admonishing hand on his son’s shoulder before he approached the dais ahead of the rest of the delegation. “I can’t say that this is how I hoped we would next meet, King Eliot, but it seems that it could not be helped.” A small smile graced his lips as he turned to Margo. “You were under a significant amount of duress, as I hear it. I also hear that you were quite right to be paranoid--even if your paranoia was misdirected at my son.” He inclined his head in her direction. “You still have the friendship of Loria, my queen.” He turned hot eyes on Eliot. “My king.”

Eliot gulped. _Shit, shit, shit, shit._

“Sooo...now that we’ve gotten the uncomfortable apologies out of the way,” Eliot began, a little more quickly and informally than etiquette usually dictated, “The High Queen and I would very much like to catch up with you in private.”

Idri tried to hide his confusion, but it read rather clearly. “You _and_ the High Queen?” Naturally, he must have thought that Eliot would be gagging for a private audience with him. Now that they were no longer magically prohibited from being together in a carnal sense he was understandably expecting Eliot to be eager to test out the waters, so to speak, before their nuptials. Idri couldn’t be more wrong, but the mistake was understandable.

As it turned out, Eliot had a very good excuse for avoiding being alone with Idri at the moment. “Yes, your highnesses. I realize that the hour is growing late. Her majesty and I would be pleased to have you as our guests tonight and to have you break your fasts with with us in the morning.” Eliot didn’t miss the gleam in Idri’s eye at what he clearly thought a discrete invitation to come to him while the castle slept.

Eliot froze, just momentarily, but it was enough for Margo to swoop in to add. “Though it may have to be a somewhat late breakfast. The High King and I have been apart for an extended amount of time and we have matters of State to discuss. It will likely take the majority of the night. You understand.” _Bless you, Margo._ _You give good Queen._

The cloud of confusion lifted somewhat from King Idri’s face. “Ah. Of course, your majesties. We would be very pleased to stay the night and reconvene in the morning. Thank you.”

 

* * *

  

Eliot and Margo dismissed the rest of the court after the Lorian contingent departed. They made their own way to, as Tick had once put it, Margo’s very favorite hallway. “You know, we should probably just build an entire room out of this kind of rock,” Eliot began, running a finger down the white stone. His finger came away coated with a fine dusting of the stuff. He quirked an eyebrow at Margo.

“Oh, that. I had Tick scraping at this wall for enough fairy poison to put in the queen’s bath.”

Eliot raised one eyebrow. “That’s almost _Shakespearean_ , Bambi.” He gathered her up in his arms and drew her to his chest. He suddenly missed their old touchy-feely camaraderie. Or maybe Quentin’s absence was making him crave human contact already.

Margo tilted her chin up to rest on his chest so she could look him in the face. “I know, right. Too bad we can’t get enough of the damn stuff to guarantee the job without raising suspicions.”

“Balls,” Eliot sighed.

“Eliot?”

“Hmm?”

“Whose dick do I have to suck? Yours or Quentin’s?”

He deliberately misunderstood her. “High Queen Margo never _has_ to suck a dick, but I’m pretty sure Quentin wouldn’t say no . . .”

“Eliot!” She jabbed him moderately hard in the ribs. “I meant, what do I have to do to get you to finally tell me what the fuck is going on between the two of you.”

“Ouch! I know, I know.” El rubbed at his ribs, letting go of her.

“Well? Do I have to give you a titty-twister?”

“God, no!” He backed up and covered his nipples with his hands.

“Then spill.”

So he told her all about it. How they remembered it all. The lifetime he and Quentin had dedicated to the quest. About Rupert and Arielle. Arielle’s death and the formation of their unconventional family and how goddamn happy they’d been. He told her about more recent events, too. How they’d finally stopped avoiding their feelings for each other. She listened in near silence to him describe his absolute love and need for Quentin Coldwater and how he was afraid it would destroy their kingdom if he didn’t figure out how to peacefully get out of his marriage treaty with King Idri.

“Well, shit,” Margo said when he was finished.

“Yeah. Shit.” They’d ended up on the hallway floor, holding hands and leaning against each other. He absently noted that they really should install some damn benches if they were going to continue to meet here. “Aaand we still need to get you out of this joke of a marriage you’re _actually_ in. Aaand get rid of the fairies. Aaand finish the goddamn quest to restore magic.”

Margo blew a strand of hair away from her face. “We are so totally fucked.”

“So, nothing new there then,” he added, dryly. And then they started laughing in that punchy way you sometimes do after a crying-jag. It’s totally inappropriate but you just can’t help it.

After a while, though it died down leaving at least Eliot completely drained. Margo kissed his cheek and got to her feet, yanking on his arm for him to follow her. “Come on, El. We won’t figure this out tonight. Maybe a bit of sleep will shake a solution loose for one of us.”

Eliot nodded, guiding them back towards the hall’s end. “You’re right,” he smiled, remembering something. “And I have a boy in my bed, Margo. That’s something.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me about Fomar.”

“Sorry, Bambi.”

“Hey, can I--”

“No. Go sleep in one of the other royal bedrooms.”

She huffed but followed along behind him towards their wing of the castle. “Fine,” she said. “I guess I can make a nest or something out of the clothes.”

 

Neither of them noticed Idri standing in the shadows as they passed by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, more intrigue!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looks like I'm going to have to kick the rating up another notch after this chapter.

 

The only light in his chambers came from the torches in the corridor outside as he cracked open the door. It spilled across the floor in a progressively narrower beam as it traveled with the swing of creaking wood. As the light moved it fell on his bed and its iridescent cream and golden bedding. He could just make out Quentin’s form under opulent blankets. His face was turned towards the door and one arm poked out to lay beside him. El quickly, but as quietly as he could, shut the door so he wouldn’t disturb the sleeping man.

He spent a moment leaning against the door while he allowed his eyes to adjust to the lack of illumination. As they did he noticed much more about Quentin’s sleeping body. Q slept on his stomach and had spread his limbs out in all directions of the bed, which honestly didn’t surprise Eliot all that much. He was very aware of Quentin’s sleeping habits. For instance, he knew that if he crawled into bed with Q right now those limbs would sense his presence and, like tentacles, draw him in. Which was just as well since being cocooned by Quentin was the only way you were going to get any blankets most of the time. The only way to keep anything like this from happening was to initiate being the big spoon before Quentin fell asleep. Anyone who didn’t like being cuddled need not lay down with Coldwater. Which, oddly, had been Rupert after his fifth birthday or so. Up until then he’d slept in the bed with everyone else. (There had been just the one bed so sharing was really the only way.) One night, not long after his mother had died, Rupert began squirming a whole lot more than usual and kicked off the bed sheets, saying he was too hot. It wasn’t until they made him a little bed of his own that he started sleeping through the night again. Eliot closed his eyes briefly. The things he would suddenly remember were jarring at times. At others they were welcome distractions. This time it was a little of both. 

Eliot was exhausted but all of the problems and possible landmines that lay ahead of them wouldn’t allow his mind to shut down. Maybe this was why his brain was trying to inject a small amount of happiness, thinking about Rupert. And while Rupert would always be a source of joy for him there was also the jarring fact that he had somehow  _ outlived _ him...and the grand kids. Possibly even the great great grand kids. He couldn’t actually calculate the degree of separation between them. Once all of this was over he and Quentin would go on a much happier quest to find all of their descendants. That made him smile.

He found himself sitting on the settee across from the bed with a lit joint in his hand halfway to his lips. He hadn’t so much not noticed what he had been doing as it was something done without effort. As much as his past life with Quentin was very real, he also had this other life trying to take up the same space in his head. In this life he smoked pot nearly every night in order to wind down. But in the past he’d given it up once Rupert was born and never missed it. Strange.

Quentin stirred on the bed after Eliot had exhaled his second hit. The smoke had wafted over Q’s head and the distinct smell must have brought him back to wakefulness. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes and the bedclothes pooled around his waist, revealing his naked chest. It gleamed in the moonlight which highlighted the smattering of coarse hair running downward and disappeared beneath the sheet.

“Eliot?” he asked blearily.

“Go back to sleep, love. I’ll be there soon.”

“Come now.” He squinted, trying to see him through the darkness most likely. “This bed is too fucking big without you in here with me.”

Eliot chuckled as he put out the joint. “That bed is almost as big as the entire cottage. We could probably both lay down on there and never touch.” He rounded the table and began climbing across the silky expanse towards Quentin, shedding first his tie and then vest as he went until he was lying next to Q but almost a full arm away. “See?”

“Nope. Don’t like that.” Quentin dragged Eliot across the bed until they were tangled together the way he liked it, where you couldn’t really tell whose limb was whose in the dark. “That’s better.”

“I should probably get out of these clothes before you wrinkle them,” Eliot said around a smile as he ran his fingers through Quentin’s hair.

“Ugh. You’re such a dandy sometimes.” 

“You love it.”

“Not when you have this many buttons.” Then he started to undo them, starting from the bottom. As he went up he disentangled himself long enough to straddle Eliot’s waist and continue. Eliot noticed that Q was wearing a pair of skin tight black boxer-briefs. “I like it better when I can just pull the shirt over your head.”

Eliot felt his smile take on a wicked edge as Quentin finished the last one. “Oh, but isn’t this more fun? It’s like opening a present.” Eliot simply laid there as Quentin peeled off first one side and then the other of his dark dress shirt. The cool night air ran across his exposed flesh, hardening his nipples.

“Well, there is that.” Eliot couldn’t quite tell in the dark but he was pretty sure that Q was blushing. It was utterly adorable so he leaned up to lay a heated kiss on him. The other man gasped but El couldn't help but notice that he took the opportunity to peel Eliot’s shirt off his shoulders. Once that little layer was gone they rose up to their knees so they could better tangle in each other’s arms. And tongues. There was a lot of tongue going on. Eliot pushed a knee between Quentin’s legs and ground down, eliciting the most indecent moan. He could feel the other man hardening.

“Pants,” Quentin gasped. Eliot took the opportunity to lick a line along his jaw, the stubble rough against El’s tongue, and up to the other man’s ear where he began to suck. Q whined. “Eliot.”

“Yes?” he said through a mouthful of salty flesh.

“You need...Oh, god...You need to get out of those jeans.” Eliot chose that moment to stick his tongue directly into the center of Quentin’s ear and twirled. Another whine escaped Q’s lips. “Like right now.”

“I’m not stopping you, Q.” He dropped back down behind Quentin’s ear. “I’m doing some of my best work over here. What are you doing?”

Quentin must have been beyond words by this point because his only answer was his fingers fumbling with Eliot’s belt buckle. He made surprisingly quick work of those, then the button and fly and began pushing his jeans down his hips. When they were down around his thighs Eliot sent them crashing to the side so Quentin could help him shimmy out of them more easily. 

There was nothing between them anymore except the stretchy fabric of their underwear. Eliot hitched one leg over Quentin’s and began grinding his erection against him. Q’s leg slipped between Eliot’s thighs, rubbing back as they did their best to steal the breath from the other’s lungs. El’s fingers once more went straight for Q’s hair, pulling his head back ever so gently so he could move his lips down the long line of Quentin’s throat.

“Eliot,” Quentin rasped. “I need . . .” The boy sounded absolutely wanton and it brought a smile to Eliot’s lips as he sucked on the dip in Q’s collarbone. Eliot knew what was required of him. He broke off his ministrations and slipped a hand down between them. He first freed himself before reaching below the elastic band of Q’s underwear and exposing the other man’s hard length. He wrapped his hand around both and began a slow, almost lazy pumping rhythm, teasing them both. 

Then Quentin did something really unexpected. He reached up and twisted Eliot’s nipple. The pain sent a delicious shiver down Eliot’s spine and he took that as another signal. He captured the pinch-happy hand and brought it down to wrap around the hand currently pumping them both. Together they kicked up the speed and friction. Precum from both of them slicked between their fingers aiding with the slight discomfort Eliot was beginning to feel from heated palms. 

The hand Quentin wasn’t currently using down below snaked around Eliot’s back. His short nails dug shallow furrows along the planes of El’s shoulder blade and spine. Eliot didn’t know he had a pain-kink until this moment, at least not when it came to Quentin, but it was really doing it for him tonight. Within seconds he was coming. He could feel hot, sticky, viscous liquid splashing against his stomach and over their hands. Quentin shuddered against him too after a few sharp pumps from Eliot.

As the tremors died down Quentin laid a rather sloppy kiss on him and laughed a little shakily. “Jesus. That was...that was...”

Eliot paid Q back with a sloppy kiss of his own. “Really good.”

“Yeah. Really good.”

Eliot rolled away to get up off the bed. “Where are you going?” For someone who had just nipple twisted and left possible scars on his lover’s back (He’d have to find out exactly where  _ that _ came from later.) Quentin sounded just a smidge too cute.

“I’m just getting a wet cloth, you wanton boy. I’ll be right back.” There was a ewer and water basin on a nearby table with soft fabric folded and hanging from the side. He poured water into the basin and dipped one of the clothes into it before wringing it out and bringing it back to the bed. He cleaned Quentin first between slow kisses and then himself. Quentin plucked the dirty rag from him then, tossed it to the floor and turned in Eliot’s arms so that his back was pressed into Eliot’s longer one.

“Wanna be the little spoon, do you?” He felt Q nod and pull El’s arms more tightly around his waist and chest. Eliot wedged one knee between Quentin’s legs and pulled the blankets over their shoulders.

They lay like that in silence for long enough that Eliot suspected that Quentin had passed out. That was until Quentin spoke. “El? I take it that since I woke up to the smell of pot and not with a tongue down my throat that I need to have faith a little longer.”

Eliot kissed Quentin’s shoulder. “For a little longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how often I'll be able to write for the rest of the week so I thought I'd leave y'all with that bit of steaminess to tide you over.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meant to have this chapter up way before now but yesterday was my birthday and I frankly had better things to do for once. XD
> 
> But I could never put this story off for very long! 
> 
> This is actually a Quentin chapter...for reasons.

Quentin awoke the next morning under silky sheets and with a strange but familiar weight at his back, arms encircling him. Eliot. The dichotomy of this situation once more threatened to overload him. They'd woken up this way many times before but at the same time this was the first. And he wasn't thinking about the sexual intimacy they'd shared either, although that had been a first as well. (He didn't count that other time. What they'd done while basically magically drunk fucking.) This was the first time, in this life, that he'd woken up cocooned in an embrace that felt like...what did this feel like? Wholeness? Wellness? It was both a new sensation and a welcomingly familiar one. Quentin squirmed a little, pulling Eliot's arm up his chest to settle over his sternum. He could feel the tickle of El's breath against his neck and mussed curls brushing against his jaw. How could his brain continue to store both realities? Would this break his mind, once and for all, or would it stretch to accommodate them both?

Now Eliot shifted in the soft bed. Q felt slightly moist lips press into the junction of his neck and shoulder. “You know,” Eliot's sleep-rasped voice began. “I'm beginning to get where Penny was coming from. I can almost  _ hear _ the cogs in your head grinding away.” Eliot gently pushed Quentin onto his back before settling his cheek against the smaller man's shoulder and laying one arm possessively low around Quentin's hip.

“Sorry,” sighed Q, running his fingers lightly up and down the arm that held him. “This thing rarely shuts off.” He tapped the side of his temple, as if Eliot wasn't completely aware of this fact already.

“What were you thinking about?”

“Oh, you know. The utter ridiculous nature of dimension hopping messenger rabbits.”

Eliot groaned. “Yeah, sure. Run with that one, if you want. Or we could discuss how we agreed not to follow one of those rabbits down a deep, dark philosophical hole.”

Quentin ran a hand over his forehead, as if he could clear his mind so easily. “I know that I'll never be able to figure it out, El. But you know me well enough by now, I'd think, to accept that my head isn't the most orderly place in the universe.”

He felt a long finger press to his lips while simultaneously Eliot whispered, “Shh. I know. Q, it's alright.” What was it about those hands of his? Quentin had a sudden urge to suck El’s finger into his mouth and since that idea was almost enough to chase away the more confusing ones, he just decided that he would. Securing Eliot's large hand between both of his own he opened his lips and took Eliot in up to the first knuckle.

Eliot almost giggled. “Q, we're going to have to talk about your impulse control issues one of these days.” Quentin swallowed and pulled Eliot's finger in further, up to the next knuckle. “But maybe not just now.” Quentin could taste salt and something a little bitter on Eliot's skin, probably the residue of pot smoke, but he didn't really care because his new/old lover had begun peppering his chest with wet, open-mouthed kisses. Quentin disconnected with the finger anyway as Eliot moved lower. He could feel his own saliva running down his neck and to his chest as Eliot slid the finger down behind him.

“I love that I do this to you,” he said against the skin over Quentin's belly button. His tongue dove down into that little crater, eliciting a tiny cry from Q's lips. “Love that you can't control yourself with me.” One of Eliot's hands reached beneath them to grasp a handful of ass but he kept on with his tongue. Alternately sucking and then blowing coolness onto the wet, sensitive flesh. The shock of both went straight to Quentin's groin and he threw his head back with a silent gasp, burying his fingers in Eliot's wrecked curls. He was about to start begging for El to move lower when he heard footsteps outside and then a light wrapping at the door.

Eliot groaned and rolled off. “That'll probably be Bambi. We've got a breakfast meeting with the Lorians.” And just like that Quentin's wood evaporated. He scowled at the door as Eliot laid back, more casually than should have been possible given the circumstances. He settled his lithe torso against the fluffy pillows next to Quentin, bringing a sheet up over their hips with him.

“If that's Queen Margo, the Destroyer, enter,” he said lightly. “If it's not, would you be so good as to fuck off?”

The door began to open before Eliot had even finished the second sentence and Margo appeared in a short black beaded robe with eye patch to match. Quentin tried and failed to hide behind Eliot but there really wasn't any use. You can't miss a naked and flushed man in a bed. Especially not when Eliot draped a possessive arm around the aforementioned naked man's shoulder.

Margo rolled her eye at them but closed the door quickly behind her and locked it. “I could have been anybody, you boobs.” She crossed the floor to place one knee on the bed. Quentin couldn't help but notice that all she had on underneath was a matching slip of fabric even shorter than the robe.

“You didn't even lock the fucking door.”

Jesus, that was a good point. Quentin shot what was probably a panicked look at Eliot, who at least had the good grace to return it with a  _ my bad _ look of his own. “Sorry. I plead monumentally high levels of stress.”

Margo slid her skeptical eye over them both for a beat or two but then she smiled and quirked an eyebrow. “Get a little  _ distracted _ did we, Eliot?” She climbed across the bed to perch on Eliot's lap and wrap her arms around his neck. Her beaded back was to Quentin and the fabric covering her ass chaffed a little on his arm.

“Maybe,” Eliot drawled.

Quentin didn't love it when they talked like he wasn't in the room, especially at this particular moment when he was in nothing but his boxers, but he'd accepted their weird friendship long ago. He settled down into the bed, prepared to be ignored for at least another minute or two.

Margo surprised him. Still hanging onto Eliot's neck she leaned backwards to lere at Quentin. “Did he finally seduce you, Q? Did he screw your brains out?” When Quentin did nothing but look offended she surprised him again by laughing and laying an affectionate kiss to his cheek and then another one on Eliot's. She slid off his lap and forced them to make room for her to lay down between them. “You don't have to answer that. I can practically smell the sex in these sheets.”

“And the fact that we're seventy-five percent naked didn't tip you off,” Quentin asked dryly. This really should have felt more awkward, but Christ, it wasn't like he hadn't had a worse morning confrontation with Margo. In a less informal state of dress than they were all currently in. He was even fairly certain that she was wearing underwear. So, an improvement all around, really.

“Are you here to oogle Quentin and me,” Eliot asked. “Or is it already time for brunch with our furry allies?”

“Weeellll. A little of both, to be honest.” She shot an almost innocent lere at Quentin. “I can barely remember what a naked Quentin looks like and I wanted to get you both up and moving before someone else got an eyeful.” She swatted Eliot against the chest. “Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking, not locking the goddamn door?”

“Christ, Margo. It won't happen again.”

“It had better not.” She pulled a lock of her long hair into her fingers and began stroking it like a rosary. “Because as happy as I am, personally, that you pining dicks have finally gotten together--you two are political suicide for us all if you're caught.”

That was a sobering thought.

“It won't come to that,” Eliot declared, getting up and out of the bed. Margo followed along behind him, leaving Quentin alone. Eliot slipped on a dark green robe before climbing back across the bed to kiss Quentin and bury his hands in his hair. “Have faith, Q.”

Quentin grabbed onto the lapels of fabric to keep Eliot there just a little longer. “I'm trying, but we can't fuck this up, El.”

Eliot's only reply was another kiss. He suspected that Eliot was just trying to shut him up.

“C’mon, Eliot. Our stylists are waiting for us in the dressing room.”

Eliot pressed one last kiss to Quentin's hair and pulled away with a reassuring smile before following Margo to the door. Despite himself, Q did feel a little comforted. Enough to call out, sotto voce, “You mean,  _ my  _ room you jerks?”

Margo laughed even if Eliot looked sheepish. “Give us about forty-five minutes and go check the place out for yourself,” he said. “There's a bath and I've kept some clothes in your size there, just in case.”

“What did you do with Alice’s room?” It was something he hadn't thought of until now.

Margo snorted. “We turned it into a weight room.” And with that the two slipped through the door. Eliot winked at him on the way out.

 

Quentin laid in bed for a while longer until he heard people milling about in the hall, presumably awaiting King Eliot and Queen Margo. He thought better of the unlocked door and scrambled from the bed to throw the deadbolt. Didn't need any servants waltzing in to find him lying in the king’s bed.

Now that he was up he decided to get at least marginally more dressed. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his jeans from the chair that he'd deposited them on last night. He slipped them on and then his black T-shirt. He sniffed under his arm and found he could definitely use a bath and some fresh clothes. He ran his tongue across his teeth. And a toothbrush. Jesus, Eliot must really love him to start going at it again when he was this gross. Eliot rarely ever smelled less than fresh, even during that first year at the cottage when they didn't have any other clothes. Quentin didn't understand how he did that.

He heard Eliot and Margo's voices re-entering the corridor and begin to move off. They'd finished much quicker than Eliot had said. Either that or he'd lain in bed for longer than he'd assumed. At any rate, now was his chance to get out of the room. A bath would really be great.

He approached the bedroom door on tip toes and pressed his ear to the door. He could hear nothing, but he waited another few minutes before unbolting the lock. He pulled the door open slowly as to avoid any creaking hinges and stuck his head out. No one in sight.

Quentin crossed to the room on his right. He cracked open the door and laughed softly when he saw that Margo hadn't been pulling his leg. This huge room did indeed have a lot of weights on racks and something that kind of looked like a stationary bike along with a lot of other equipment that Quentin didn't recognize but that he figured must be exercise equipment. If Alice ever showed up and wanted a nap she'd be so pissed off.

That left the door opposite as Quentin’s room-cum-wardrobe. He shut the door to the weight room and crossed the hall. As he pressed down on the latch he heard a booted foot behind him. Quentin tried to disappear into the room before he was seen but was stopped when someone called his name.

“King Quentin?”

Quentin cringed, really wishing he had magic right about this second. If for no other reason than to create some kind of distraction while he escaped. He turned slowly on the balls of his bare feet, preparing to make his excuses to a servant or maybe a royal advisor, but who he found was so much worse.

“My name is King Idri,” said an imposing looking man not five feet away. “We should talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I need to join a support group for cliffhanger addiction. Sorry, y'all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is full of awkward. Like, chalk fuller than Grape Nuts is with tooth-cracking pellets of wheat. And Eliot feels like a major tool for asking a huge favor of Margo.

Eliot and Margo moved through the corridors arm-in-arm, dressed in their best _what, this old thing_ finery. The sight was actually quite compelling, which is what they were going for at all times, but they had somehow managed to tone down their usual _Labyrinth-meets-Project-Runway_ look for something a bit more demure. Dare they say it, but they looked almost _Lowkey-LotR-meets-GoT?_ Maybe they’d over-shot because the look was objectively stunning. Margot’s hips gently swayed under a loose-fitting, sleeveless dress of undyed linen that clasped around her neck by a simple golden torque. She wore her hair loose and lightly curled to frame her face with only a simple braid to crown her head. Eliot wore a forest green velvet doublet and trousers, a loose linen shirt that matched Margo’s gown underneath and revealed by the split front of the doublet. On both their right index fingers they wore the seal of Fillory. Eliot did wear his crown at Margo’s insistence. She reasoned that the look they were going for was non-threatening but still regal. She claimed that she didn’t need any “fucking crown to look royal as fuck” but that since Eliot was the one that was going to have to actually do the bargaining she didn’t want anyone to forget that he was a king in his own right, not a supplicant.

They were asking for a lot from Loria, but they were going to offer much in return. They hoped that they could spin it that way at any rate. In exchange for breaking off the agreed-to union of Loria and Fillory through marriage, Eliot and Margo were prepared to sign a very generous trading and military alliance deal in addition to the fifty-fifty split of the well-spring once their quest was complete. It was basically the same deal the Lorians would be getting anyway had Eliot and Idri married, but they were counting heavily on them not noticing this. Eliot hadn’t mentioned this to Bambi yet, but he was also hoping to offer them an added incentive.

“You know they’re going to see right through this bullshit, right?” Margo stated under her breath as they walked. The walls had ears, of course, and fairies.

“Of course they will,” Eliot said through a sigh. “But we’ve got to try. This isn’t just for me, you know.”

She huffed and placed a hand on her hip. “I know. I want Quentin to be happy, too,” she said, “but you know he won’t _be_ happy to find out you started a war over him.”

“Actually, I was sort of referring to you,” Eliot said, determinedly not looking at Margo.

“To me?” She sounded bewildered for a moment but soon caught on. “Eliot, you dick!”

He pulled Margo aside, by a window. “Bambi. Listen to me. I know you don’t want to hear this but . . .” He licked his lips, wishing he had a cigarette, before going on. “That fairy bitch was right about one thing. We _need_ alliances. I agree that Fomar needs to catch a serious case of deaditis but how--” He trailed off, lamely.

Margo pressed her fingers to the space between her eyebrows. “How are we going to do that on our own,” she said, wearily. “Not without starting a war we can’t win. We need Loria.” A long, tense silence followed, in which El resolutely kept his mouth shut. He knew what he was asking of her. He'd been faced with the same tough, life-altering decision himself not that long ago. He didn't know what they would do if she refused, but he'd respect her wishes no matter what. He couldn't, wouldn't force her into it. It scared him a little to know that fear of losing Quentin drove him to such desperate places. Just making the suggestion made him feel like the biggest traitor alive.

He watched Margo war with herself and it was painful to witness. She mumbled a long and throaty, “Fuuuck,” under her breath before meeting his eyes again. There was a little bit of hurt alongside the anger. “If you aren’t going to marry into the kingdom, I could.” She looked away, paced back and forth. “But I’ve already turned Ess down once. He’ll never put the offer on the table again.”

_Treacherous_ _bastard._ Eliot reached for Margo and stopped her. “Just to be clear. Are you agreeing to this?” He allowed just the slightest hint of hope to creep into his voice. He was really counting on his suspicion that the apparent hatred between Margo and Ess was actually a middle school grade mask over their attraction for each other.

“Yeah.” She blew out from between tight lips. “I’ll do it.” Eliot smiled, relieved and tried to thank her. She raised a finger to his face. “Let _me_ be crystal clear, though. This was my idea. Got it?”

“Of course, Bambi.”

She turned the most stern look on Eliot that he’d ever been on the receiving end of. It was kind of terrifying. “Because I’ll be _damned_ if it looks like the High King can order _me_ to marry _anybody_.”

Eliot almost didn’t dare to look her in the eye. “He wouldn’t dream of it,” Eliot croaked. He opened his mouth. Then closed it again. Then said, “Umm...Is it weird that I’m strangely turned on right now?”

That satisfied cat-in-the-cream smile which he’d always loved graced her face. He thought that they might just be okay. “Flatterer,” she purred and set off down the hall without him. There was a little extra twitch in her step.

Eliot suspected that she was the bravest woman he’d ever known.

 

* * *

 

Margo let Eliot catch up to her before they entered as a united front into their private dining room. It was important that they showed King Idri and Prince Ess that they were together in all things. That they ruled together. And that they looked goddamn fabulous doing it. Eliot motioned for a guard to open the door for them, but held back the herald from announcing their entrance. There was regal and then there was unnecessary pomp.

“We are the High King and Queen of Fillory,” Eliot whispered for Margo's benefit and for his own, if he was being honest. “We get what we want and if we don't we turn that shit into fertilizer.” They paused just outside the door.

“Hells yeah,” agreed Margo, pasting on her most winning smile. “Let's do this.” And with that they entered--

\--an empty room.

“Well. That was anticlimactic.” Eliot looked around, wondering a bit foolishly if Idri and Ess were hiding somewhere. They weren't, of course. He lowered himself into the carved wooden chair furthest from the entrance.

Margo dropped gracelessly into another close by chair around the food-laden table. “Here we go, baited for bear, and instead we get to sit around with our thumbs up our asses.” She reached for a red grape and popped it into her mouth. “Figures,” she said, mouth full and uncaring.

Eliot pulled his flask from his pocket and spiked a goblet of orange juice before taking a drink. “Do you think they're making some kind of point?” he asked. “Or are they just running late? I mean, how much time does it take to put on fur?”

Margo brushed an imaginary crumb from her lap and crossed her legs but said nothing. Instead she pulled a croissant from a platter and began tearing it apart, popping one piece after the other into her mouth. Eliot took another long draft of his doctored drink to finish it.

“The King and Crown Prince of Loria,” declared the harold, who sounded much too pleased to be allowed to do his job.

“About fucking time,” muttered Eliot before pasting on a welcoming smile for their guests. Margo perked herself up a bit too, but El could tell she was less than sanguine. He couldn't really blame her. She was about to propose to one barbarian over the figurative corpse of another. And while she could get by with being a bit sullen (it was rather her default), Eliot was supposed to be happy to see his would-be spouse.

“Idri! Ess!” He practically bubbled as the two entered. “I trust you slept well. Please, sit and eat with us.” He motioned to the chairs opposite he and Margo.

It was here that things started to fall apart. Idri and Ess entered the dining room with very strange expressions on their faces. They were smiling, true, but there was something just under the surface that Eliot tried to quickly categorize. Resignation or wistfulness on Idri? Ess seemed maybe a bit too pleased with something, though. It could mean almost anything, but Eliot felt his hands go clammy. He tried to tell himself that it was just his own guilty conscience digging the knife in, but he didn't really believe it. Something was definitely up with those two.

“Thank you, Eliot,” Idri began, sitting down at Eliot's left hand. “We have passed a good night, thanks to your royal hospitality.” Ess took up a seat next to his father and gave Margo a smug smile, followed by a wink, but said nothing.

“We're glad to hear it,” Margo said with an unnaturally bright voice. It really didn't fit her, but Eliot hoped he was the only one who would that. “Please, help yourself. The King and I don't stand on ceremony when we eat privately, but the food is still fabulous.” As if to prove her assertion, she reached for a puff pastry and took a bite. Eliot suspected that she was eating her anxiety as much as anything. That was fine, because he was currently drinking his. He surreptitiously poured a bit more liquor into a second goblet of juice.

And so all the royals tucked in. On the surface they passed the meal exchanging bits of unimportant news about their realms and in idle chatter. Idri even managed to get a genuine laugh out of them with a bawdy story about two female mountain goats and an inept shepherd boy who was trying to make them mate, thinking one was a ram for some reason. Under it all, though, was tension. For the Fillorians it was about everything they weren't discussing. Gods only knew what was going on at the other end, but Eliot found himself rapidly losing his nerve to broach the topic he needed to: dissolving the marriage treaty.

After an hour or so the four of them leaned back, full. The remains of their meal were strewn about the table. Margo gave Eliot a pointed look over her glass as a lull in conversation formed. It was now or never. Fuck, this was never going to work.

Eliot rested his elbows atop the table, steepling his fingers in front of his lips. “Idri, the Queen and I--Well, we need to discuss something with you.”

“Hmm,” Eliot’s fiance mused, seemingly enjoying the late-morning sun as it washed through the tall, narrow windows. Idri was lounging back in his chair, a cup of tea looking absolutely dwarfed in his large hands. Eliot suddenly saw, in his mind, what it would look like for Idri to decide to shatter the delicate china between his fingers.

_Get it together, Eliot._

“Yes. It’s more than a bit important,” he began, sitting forward in the chair. “To both of our realms.”

Idri replaced the cup on its saucer and gazed at Eliot with resignation. “I know.” He motioned to Ess, who stood with his father. Eliot was growing rather annoyed with the smug expression on the young prince. “But we need to have this discussion elsewhere.”

“What do you mean?” asked Margo, with a raised eyebrow. She and Eliot both rose from the table. Is it possible to rise apprehensively? Because that was what they were doing.

“Oh, c’mon. We both know this castle is crawling with fairies,” snarked Ess, with an accompanying eye-roll.

Eliot gulped, looking from first one Lorian to the other. “You do?” he asked.

Idri looked calm but firm. “We do. Which is why we need to make our way to a place I know of.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I know. I'm seriously late with posting this. We are getting to the finish line, peeps, and I'm trying my damnedest to wrap this all up coherently. That takes way more time and I'm frankly finished with promising y'all quick updates from here on out. What I will promise is that I'm going as quickly as I can while still making this a decent conclusion.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In my head I call this chapter, "Whistfulness and Outrage".

Outside the castle, the four of them approached one of Idri’s carriages. The air was crisp but the sun shone through the trees. Even so, their breathes clouded out before them as they climbed the step into the box. Margo made their excuses to a nervous Tick who stood by the carriage...somehow. Eliot was too busy internally freaking out to pay attention. It felt like they were being taken hostage despite Idris profession that they were merely retreating to a less fairy-friendly venue. It was clear that he and Margo had little choice in the matter.

He reached for Margo's hand as the horses started to trot away from the castle. Idri saw it and smiled. “Maybe you and the Queen should have married,’ he said. “You would have had an easier time of things, I suspect.”

Margo guffawed. “Eliot and I would be a spectacular dumpster fire married.”

“We are anyhow, sometimes,” Eliot said, a fond smile on his face, just for Bambi.

Idri leaned past his son to better punctuate his words. “I can see that there is love there,” he said.

He kissed her hand before laying it down in his lap. “Our relationship doesn't have a direct analog to anything normal,” he said. Margo rolled her eyes but she was smiling out the window.

“You're family,” Idri said with a note of definiteness.

“Family. I suppose that fits . . .,” Eliot trailed off.

 

_ Eliot loved the little lump of pink baby-flesh currently wrapped in linen and sleeping off a milk hangover in his arms. It really was too easy to think of the infant as a miniature drunkard. His arms and legs poked through the blanket in a sprawl and a little spit up dribbled from the corner of his mouth. As Eliot gazed down at the little guy he actually burped in his sleep. It was too goddamn cute for words. _

_ It was utterly foreign, what Eliot was feeling. When Fen had revealed the news that she was carrying their child he'd felt nothing but dread. He hadn't felt one iota of fatherly affection or relief upon meeting Fray. His entire experience with family had been one disaster after another that he'd never really wanted one of his own. So, it took him a while to label what he’d been feeling since the day this baby had been brought kicking and screaming into their world. _

_ Eliot was in love. He was in love in a way that he never could have imagined. For this little tyke he knew he'd walk through fire. Fuck, he'd even give up his vices. He hadn't actually even noticed that Quentin had thrown out his stash until days after the fact. _

_ “We were thinking of naming him Rupert,” Arielle said. She was resting in their bed, still recovering from the birth. He'd nearly forgotten that she was there. The interruption brought him back to reality. In his mind he could pretend. Pretend that the child was his. Her words reminded him that he was, in many ways, an outsider. _

_ Eliot laughed quietly. “How did he talk you into that?” _

_ “The same way he talks either of us into anything, Eliot.” She smiled knowingly at him. _

_ “He's such a cheater.” He wasn't jealous of Arielle, really. How could he dislike anyone that brought Quentin so much happiness? He'd actually come to love her. He used to joke that they were sister wives. (It’d taken a while to explain THAT concept to her.) But with this child in their lives it reinforced how tenuous his relationship with them was. Not for the first time, Eliot wondered if he should move out. _

_ “It really is unfair, isn't it?” she answered. Eliot's only response was to run a finger across the baby's impossibly soft cheek before smoothing down his downy fluff of hair. _

_ “Speaking of names,” she said a few minutes later. “How does Papa El sound?” _

_ Eliot froze. His heart stuttered before it rapidly picked up its pace. Fingers flexed gently around baby bum to keep from shaking the poor thing awake. “Papa El?” The words came out choked. “Did Q put you up to that too?” _

_ Arielle rose up from the bed to wrap her arms around his middle and rest her chin on his shoulder. “Actually, Quentin was worried you wouldn't accept,” she said in a near whisper. “He told me about your own child. How you felt disconnected from her.” _

_ Eliot didn't want to think about that. Guilt over leaving Fen alone with their stranger-daughter stroked icy fingers down his spine. But there was no judgement in Arielle’s tone. _

_ “I've seen you with Rupert. You've been smitten with him from day one. And we're a family. Why shouldn't he call you Papa?” _

_ Eliot looked up to the cottage’s timber ceiling, desperately trying to will away sudden tears. _

_ “Eliot?” It was Quentin. Eliot flicked his eyes down just long enough to see his shape filing the entrance, a bag of supplies over his shoulder. “Why is he crying, Arielle?” _

_ “I asked him,” she replied. _

_ And the next thing Eliot knew, warm hands encircled his knees and squeezed them gently. “You  _ are _ his father, too, Eliot. For fuck’s sake, you delivered him. I was completely useless.” _

_ This made Eliot laugh through the tears. “Oh, honey. I was a farm boy. I've delivered my fair share of baby goats and cows...Not that it was totally analogous, but you know.” He shrugged, but he could feel an incipient smile tugging at his lips. _

_ “And you're already sharing shitty diaper duty.” _

_ “True.” _

_ “And you're his father. Just as much as me.” He leaned up, careful not to disturb Rupert, and kissed Eliot tenderly on the lips. “Please say yes.” _

_ “How can I say no?” _

 

Time had passed while Eliot had been lost in memory. He was bewildered enough to not know  _ how _ much time had passed. He looked out the window closest to him and saw nothing but anonymous woods. He craned his neck a little to peer out Margo's window. They were riding alongside a rocky hill.

“We're almost there,” Idri said. He was gazing intently at Eliot with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Eliot!” Margo said, unexpected heat in her voice. He turned to see her staring up and out the window. The carriage slowed and came to a stop. She immediately jumped out, still looking up. She turned back to throw a scathing glare at Idri and Ess. “How dare you! What gives you fuckers the right?!”

“What's going on?” Eliot scrambled out behind her, completely bemused, but starting to panic. Margo shot him a glance before she returned to staring daggers at the Lorians.

“They took him!”

“What?” But he looked up the side of the rocky out crop. And up. Fifty feet up and along a dusty trail was a cave. Standing at the mouth of the cave stood Quentin... bracketed on either side and behind by Lorian guards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I became suddenly inspired on my long-ass drive home from work. I wanted to tell the story of how El became _Papa El_. Also just couldn't resist fleshing out the triad of Eliot/Quentin/Arielle. I decided they'd have a sister wives kind of vibe, because I couldn't see El getting it on with her but I thought that he'd definitely love her in a very real way. Quentin was the luckiest bastard on the planet.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions are high and not much gets resolved.

“They’ve kidnapped Quentin,” Margo seethed.

Eliot could only stare up, his heart in his throat. Quentin was too far away for him to be one-hundred percent sure, but it looked like the other man was unharmed. The guards all around him stood at attention, spears in their hands. They were not actually restraining him, but neither were they giving him much liberty of movement. Quentin simply stood there, one arm wrapped around his middle to grasp onto his other bicep. The posture spoke of nervous tension but any more than that Eliot couldn't tell.

Eliot turned slowly to Idri and Ess. He could feel his hackles raising, much the way Margo's were. “Explain yourselves,” he snarled. “Because you have kidnapped a king of Fillory.”  _ And my true husband _ , he wanted to add, but didn't. He wanted to set them both on fire. He wanted to forcibly remove the air from their lungs with a flick of his wrist. Good thing there was no magic or he would have done all that and more.

Ess spoke first, coming forward to sneer up at Eliot. “I think you have some explaining of your own to do,  _ King Eliot. _ ” The little jackass had the nerve to look angry with them.

“Explain this, you piece of shit.” Over the prince's shoulder Eliot saw Margo as she reached into her cloak and brought out a wicked looking dagger. Before anyone could react she pressed it against Ess’s fur jacket, right at the base of his spine. Ah, Margo. Ever the practical one. Of course she'd smuggled a knife into her clothes. God only knew where she'd hidden it, but he was so happy that she had.

His glee was short-lived, however, because Idri pressed a knife of his own into the delicate flesh of her neck, just below her jaw. “Queen Margo,” Idri said with deceptive calm. “Drop the knife.”

“Release Quentin,” she said, digging her metaphorical heels in. “Then I'll drop the knife.”

“Margo!” Eliot cried, in fear. He could see a bead of blood dripping from the tip of Idri's knife and run down her slender throat. 

“Margo!” Came an unexpected but distant shout from above their heads. “Don't do it!” 

Everyone looked up to see Quentin pushing his way through his encircling guard to begin racing down the winding path that lead from the cave. The guards did not try to restrain or recapture him. They merely filed down behind him in an orderly manner.

“What the . . .,” Eliot let out.

“. . . Fuck?” Margo finished for him, as nonplussed as he. She withdrew the knife from Ess at the same moment that Idri withdrew his. She stepped towards the foot of the hill, secreting her knife into the depths of her robes as she went. She walked as if in a daze.

Eliot just stared for a moment before his sympathetic nervous system finally gave in and he found himself racing past Margo to meet Quentin just as he reached the bottom of the path. They crashed into each other's embrace with such force that they nearly tumbled over. It was Quentin who righted them by bracing his foot behind him to offset the impact. 

Eliot’s hands searched Quentin, looking for the slightest hint of injury. “Are you hurt?” El fretted. “Did anyone touch you?”

Quentin smiled up at him a bit self-consciously. “El, I'm fine. No one so much as laid a hand on me,” he said.

“But how . . . Why . . .” Words were failing Eliot. The confused syllables stuck in his throat, which were being hammered by the erratic jag of his heart. He was relieved that Quentin seemed fine but he'd be damned if he knew what was going on.

Margo reached their side and slid between them to slip her arms around Quentin's waist and rest her head against his chest. “Quentin,” she breathed. The relief in her voice was evident, if not a bit shaky. After a few moments of the three of them embracing she stepped back. Eliot could see that her lip quivered for just a moment, before she pressed them into a thin line. She turned on her heels to face the Lorians.

“Answers. Now,” she said with the monolithic intensity of an incoming thunderstorm.

Ess shook imaginary dust from his cloak and looked at his father pointedly. Idri nodded and the prince strode past the trio and the guards to begin walking up the rocky path. Idri watched him ascend for a moment before acknowledging Margo, who stood losing her cool exponentially with each moment she was being ignored. Eliot wanted to be outraged right along with her--and he was, in theory. It was just hard to focus on that when he was so relieved to have Quentin within arm’s reach and seemingly unharmed. The harshest negative emotion he could entertain beyond that was intense confusion. He knew the rage would come later.

“Queen Margo,” he said. “Kings Eliot and Quentin.” He gestured up to the mouth of the cave. “If you’ll join my son and I up there in that cave we can talk more privately.”

“Guys--It--It’s made out of the rock Margo told us about,” Quentin spoke up. His friends turned dubious eyes on him. Quentin began walking back up the path. “Just. Come on.”

Eliot felt a firm but unthreatening hand at his back. It was Idri, who looked very tired, pushing him to follow Quentin. “Please. Soon it will all make sense.” Eliot nodded and grabbed Margo’s hand as they started up the hill behind Quentin. The guards fell in behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this was almost criminally short but I'm just not all that good at writing stuff like this. I struggled to write even that little bit of action and it took all that I had not to simply gloss over the whole scene. You know, kinda the way they do sometimes on the show. <_<


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imma do it, y’all. This is a MARGO chapter! 
> 
> Sorry that this has taken so long. I’ve been having a serious mental aversion to writing this chapter. I just didn’t know how to go about it. Let’s be honest, none of these characters are all that politically astute. Unless you count social politics, but that is only loosely applicable to geopolitics. So, I decided to just have a completely fresh perspective (and tackle another big challenge) in writing it all from Margo’s perspective.

Margo’s heels were unsteady on the rocky path and she needed the steady support of Eliot’s arm to keep from stumbling. Her eye never stopped scanning her surroundings, looking for traps or monsters or fucking _anything_ that she could lash out at--because she was pissed off! She was pissed that they had taken Quentin. She was pissed that maybe he hadn’t been taken. She was pissed that there was blood staining the neckline of her gown. She was pissed that she didn’t know what was going on. And she was most pissed because that made her feel fear. Real and genuine fear.

They were at the absolute mercy of those around them. Even Quentin, who seemed to know what was going on when she and Eliot did not. Her mind rebelled at the notion that Q was plotting against them but it didn’t feel right to be watching him walk up the rocky hill in front of them as though he were one of the Lorians and not . . . Well, not their Little Q. That was how she’d always thought of him. It was why she was so quick to draw a blade in his defense. It was why she hadn’t given a damn when Idri had threatened her. She’d rather have her other eye gouged out than admit this to him, but she had more than a soft spot for Quentin. This was especially true since she’d discovered that he and Eliot had finally stopped navel-gazing long enough to realize that they’d been in love for--for fuck’s sake, since very nearly Day One. She’d protect that little loser for Eliot’s sake (and her own) no matter what it took. But he hadn’t needed protection. He’d protected _her,_ in a way. It was disconcerting as fuck. She didn’t like that. So...another reason for the anger.

“Bambi?” Eliot whispered, squeezing the fingers that rested on his arm. What she was thinking must have been written all over her face. “Retract the claws. Nobody is trying to hurt us. No one has hurt Q.”

“We don’t know that,” she hissed. “We don’t know a goddamn thing.” They were nearing the top, the mouth of a rather considerable cave looming on their right. “Why aren’t you as ready to skin these fuckers as I am?”

Several yards in front of them Q drew to a stop, waiting for them. A guard appeared with a torch and posted himself next to their friend who glanced nervously at the guard and his big spear.  “Oh, trust me,” Eliot said, narrowing his eyes, “I am. But they’ve got us over a barrel.”

They walked the next few moments in silence until they reached Q and the entrance. Margo squinted past him, trying to see if anything unpleasant was going to pop out at them. She could see nothing past the dozen or so feet of torch light being thrown from two sconces just inside. What she could see was a bare-ass stone cavern. Now that she thought about it...it looked a little like the stone in her special fairy-repelling hallway. Hadn’t Q mentioned something about that? To he honest, she had barely registered it in her rage. She felt a piece or two of the puzzle falling into place.

“So? We taking this shit-show on the road now?” She arched an eyebrow at Quentin. Eliot coughed.

“You could say that,” Quentin replied through a sigh, shoving his hands into the pockets of his quilted black jerkin. “It's--It’s been a really shitty morning.” Well, it looked like he'd at least been allowed to bathe and change before being dragged here. These weren't his usual clothes.They looked distinctly more Fillorian, the jerkin was subtly detailed with braiding and gold facets. He wore it easily over a dark blue crossover tunic, also trimmed in gold. The look was completed with black trousers and calf-high leather boots. It suited him; not exactly regal but expensive and it made him look more like he belonged here, which despite Q’s professed love for Fillory, he had never made much effort to do. It was clearly something Eliot had picked out for him, she realized. She quirked an eyebrow in frank approval over at Eliot, who seemed to be following everything going on in her head. He returned her smirk for the briefest moment before the frown returned. _Jesus, Margo. ADD, much? Get your heading in the fucking game._

“This way, please,” Idri spoke up from behind them. Margo couldn't help it, she jumped a little, but luckily covered it by half-turning to glare at him.

“Lead the way,” she said. “It's your cave.”

 

* * *

 

Margo decided that she didn’t give a damn about this cave. They walked down through it in near darkness. She could hear the faint trickling of water. It smelled like mold and stagnant water, some of which had collected in puddles across the stone floor that she was doing her best to avoid stepping in. She just wanted to get this over with. She had the distinct suspicion that she wouldn’t like whatever was waiting for them. Quentin had taken a torch from the wall and was leading the party, Fillorians and Lorians alike. The surreal-o-meter was going off the goddamn charts. Did Quentin come up with this whole thing? It hadn’t really felt that way outside in the chilly air, but in here even Idri seemed somewhat unsure of where they were going. He was running his hand along the stone wall and peering ahead of them as though trying to see past Quentin’s light.

They reached a bend in the cave and Quentin raised a hand, signaling for the party to stop. Another torch burned at this corner and Q hefted it from its place and handed it to Idri. “Your Majesty,” he said. “Please umm, could you give us a minute?”

Idri smiled at Quentin, _knowingly_. Motherfucker. These motherfuckers. She was getting really tired of all this cloak and dagger shit. Especially considering she actually had a dagger in her cloak and she had absolutely no idea where to point it. Or if she needed to point it at anyone at all.

“Yeah, beat it, Idri,” she cut in. “We’ve got to have a word with our boy here.”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Eliot smoothed while surreptitiously kicking Margo in the shins.

“That would probably be for the best,” Idri said, casting his gaze between the three of them. “Take your time. We await you down here.” And with that Idri strode away, one hand on the stone and the other lifting the torch before him to light his way.

Once they deemed Idri far enough out of earshot Margo and Eliot turned to Quentin. He stood there as though patiently waiting for the hammer to drop.

“ _What the fuck is going on?!”_ They said it together: Margo in the clearest tones of outrage and annoyance she could muster and Eliot in utter bewilderment.

“That’s not the easiest thing to explain, guys.”

Margo opened her mouth, ready to tell Quentin that he needed to make a freaking attempt before she shoved her foot up his ass, but Eliot (probably wisely) held up a hand to stop her.

“How about you start with telling us what happened after we left you this morning?” he asked, gently.

Quentin ran a nervous hand through his hair, eyes cast down to the stone floor. “Well, I was--I don’t know-- _confronted_ by Idri about thirty seconds after I poked my head out into the hall.” He leaned against the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets, a gesture Margo had become familiar with. It meant that whatever Quentin had to say, it wouldn’t be good. She knew this already, though, and wished he’d just get on with it.

“Did he threaten you?” Eliot asked. The question had some heat behind it.

“He said he just wanted to talk,” Quentin continued. “He led me back to that hallway where the fairies can’t hear us and basically said that he knew about everything.” Margo tensed. Everything? “The fairies dicking you and Margo over. Our plot to get rid of Fomar. He even knows something about our quest, though not all of it. He definitely knows,” Quentin’s eyes flicked up to Eliot and then away, “about you wanting to break off the marriage treaty and why.”

“Sonofabitch!” Margo swore sulfurously, turning away.

Behind her she heard Eliot say in bewilderment, “How?”

Quentin chuckled mirthlessly. “Because we are shit about secrecy and security, apparently.”

“The hallway. Jesus, we are idiots,” Eliot sighed. “It was the exact last place that the Floaters had been and we just blabbed all our secrets right there.”

“Yeah, well. We were more worried about the fairies overhearing us at the time,” Quentin said.

Margo let their voices fade into the background for a bit after that. She was too busy running through possible scenarios and berating herself and all of them for being such massive fools. She wondered exactly how fucked they really were. There were still so many pieces to the puzzle that hadn’t fallen into place yet.

She turned back to her friends. “What does he want?” she said, unaware of and uncaring what the others had been saying. At least she tried to be, but it was hard not to feel a little melty inside at the sight before her. While she had been fulminating on ways and means to kill every last one of these dicks that stood in their way Eliot and Quentin had apparently decided that cuddling was the appropriate next step. Eliot had joined Quentin in wall-propping and had an arm around him. His head was bent down, his cheek resting on Quentin’s head. A loose curl or two obscured his face. Quentin’s ear was pressed to Eliot’s chest as though checking that the other’s heart was still beating. Neither seemed to have registered her question.

No, never mind. That shit was annoying and not at all cute. This was serious. “Yo. Lovebirds,” she snapped both literally and figuratively. “What does Loria want?”

“Want?” Quentin asked.

Margo pressed the fingers of one hand between her brows. “What do they want from us, Quentin? Exactly how fucked are we right now?”

“Oh, that,” he said, breaking off from Eliot. “That’s the strange part. I think he actually wants to help us.”

Margo let her mouth drop open.

Quentin smirked. “Yeah. That was my reaction at first, too.”  

Eliot reached out and touched Quentin’s hand as though, now that his lover was safe and in front of him, he couldn't stand to not be touching him in some way. Quentin looked up at him and opened his fingers at the touch, letting their fingers thread together.

 _Ugh. These pining bitches. She_  just knew that she'd lose them in their googly eyes if that went on much longer. She tapped her foot rather insistently on the stone floor. They looked up at that, sufficiently chastened. She made a _come on_ gesture.

Quentin cleared his throat. “Yeah, sorry. Anyway, it.seems like we aren't the only ones who have been getting pushed around by the Fairies. All the major powers in Fillory are feeling it and they're fed up.”

“That's good news!” Eliot exclaimed, but then his countenance clouded. “Right?”

“I think it could be,” Quentin began. He paused for an excruciating moment. He ran a palm across his face. “But it's going to require sacrifices on our account.”

“Sacrifices?” Margo asked. “What sacrifices?’

This was sounding more and more like gold-plated shit to her.


End file.
